Grief
by Max Alleyne
Summary: Before he even spoke to me, I knew what he was going to say, and it was all I could do not to clamp my hands over my ears like a child and refuse to listen. But I did. I listened to his agonizingly concise and scientific speech about Fi’s condition.


**Author's Note: **So, this came to me while reading another fic. It's a different take on Michael and Fi and pregnancy.  


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There is a reason that spies don't have children. For most people, children are a joy, and the end-all and be-all of a person's existence. But for a spy, a child is an enormous tactical burden. An operative's life is comprised of two elements: waiting, and putting yourself in deadly situations. Add a kid, and you've got a very sticky situation. Just by having children, it increases your own personal risk because you're going to put the kid ahead of the mission. Your loyalties are divided, and you start to ignore the training that was designed to save your life.

Eight weeks ago, I sitting was in the loft, cleaning my Sig Sauer P228 when she knocked. I should have known that it was something serious right then, because Fi never knocks. She would much rather just walk in and lie on the bed like she owns the place. Instead, she waited until I had opened the door and asked, "Can I come in?" That's when I really knew that something was going on.

I nodded and pushed the door open wider. She walked in and leaned against the bar, looking nervous. It was weird to see Fi looking awkward, because she is rarely lost for words, especially when she's not pissed. She studied me for a minute, obviously conflicted, and then her words came spilling from her mouth.

"Michael, I'm pregnant."

I couldn't speak for a moment, trying to adjust to what Fi had just told me. With those three little words, what she really said was "The world as you know it just got ten times more dangerous, and you're never going to get this burn notice lifted." Because that's what having a child would do. I knew that I might as well give up on the burn notice, give up on ever having my old job back, give up on ever working to protect my country, because all of that is gone.

But it didn't sting as much as I expected it to. There was no anger or bitterness at the idea that I wasn't going to be able to go back. Instead, there was just acceptance. Fi was having a baby, which meant that I had to stay confined to Miami and do the best I could to take care of them. It seemed so simple—deceptively simple. It took me a moment to realize that Fi, who loved children, wasn't jumping for joy.

"You don't seem too happy about this," I said.

"I'm fine with it. Not liking this morning sickness too much, though. This morning I threw up on my throwing knives…I'd just finished cleaning them, too," she answered, though her voice told me that she was hiding something. She's too subdued. Fi was never one for taking the middle ground on something, and she was being far too bland.

"Fi, what's wrong?"

"We need a plan, Michael. How are we going to handle this?" I got really concerned when she said this, because let's face it—Fi's idea of a plan is "when in doubt, grab the assault rifles and the C-4."

"We're going to make sure you get to the doctor for all your check-ups and—"

"You're trying to get your job back. Where does that leave us?"

And there it was. The real reason that she wasn't saying anything. She's worried about my involvement, and truth be told, I couldn't really blame her. I want my job back, I want to know why I was burned, I want a lot of things. But Fi is pregnant. _I _am going to have _child. _

"I'm out in the cold now, Fi. I have to make sure I have the connections to keep you safe. But I'm not letting you do this alone, if that's what you mean."

"If you stay just because you think you have to, you're going to be bored and miserable," she said. She was trying to be businesslike and unemotional, but I could see her anxiety through the façade. As much as she wanted me to stay in Miami, she didn't want it to be because of a meaningless obligation. But Fi could never be a meaningless obligation, not even if she tried. And a child? Hell no. Children may be inconvenient and hell on tactical strategy, but never a meaningless obligation. Especially not _my _child.

"You'll keep me on my toes," I whispered, wrapping my arms around her, and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her smile was radiant as she took in what I had said. I could see the Fi that I knew and loved coming back out as she kissed me again before she went to the fridge and got a yogurt.

Fi didn't half-ass anything. She bought the books, scheduled doctor's appointments, took her vitamins, kept eating healthy. I found myself looking at everything through a new lens: baby-proofing and bullet-proofing became equally as important. Sam helped with what he could. He mostly just sat and drank our beer. In his words, he was "removing the temptation" of beer from both our fridges.

Mom was over the moon (and the sun, for that matter) when we told her. She was so excited, she forgot how "sick" she was for a whole three days before she called me to go the drugstore again. She pulled out all of the toys she had left from when Nate and I were kids: old stuffed animals that were so worn out their fur was gone, GI Joes, Linkin Logs. Most of it would be useless if the baby was a girl, but we didn't tell her that. She was too excited about the fact that she was going to be a grandma to even think about it, and for once, it was _almost _okay when she called every two hours to see how things were going.

I took jobs that paid better, despite the fact that they took longer and were more complicated. It was harder without Fi, partly because we knew each other so well, I didn't have to ask for something before she was handing it to me. It also felt wrong to be doing a job without her. She had been such a big part of my life—personally and professionally—for too long, and to talking to clients without her was like sleeping without a gun under my pillow: uncomfortable and potentially deadly.

When being a few minutes late can result in dozens of civilian deaths, you learn to be on time. In a life or death situation, seconds can make all the difference. So when an asset is late for a meeting, you should immediately be on high alert, because chances are, something has gone wrong.

She was supposed to meet me back at the loft at three-thirty to deliver some paperwork she had forged for me. After working with Fi as long as I have, I have learned that her entire life is chaos. Her car is a mess, her house is organized in a way that only she understands, and this more than often makes her late. But she is never late without calling, and her cell phone only goes straight to voicemail when she's in a meeting—which she wasn't.

I meant to wait ten minutes before heading over to her place, but I couldn't. She should have been there, and she wasn't. She should have been answering her phone, and she wasn't. There were too many things that could go wrong running through my mind as I got in the Charger and drove—well over the speed limit—to her house.

The front door is unlocked, which tells me that she hadn't planned to leave the house yet. Everything appears to be like it should. I can't see anything that's out of place. I can hear water running in the bathroom, another sign that she hadn't yet left the house.

"Fi?" I didn't get an answer, so I moved back towards the bathroom. The door is closed but unlocked, so I push it open after calling her name twice more.

She's lying on the floor of the bathroom, unconscious. Panic tears through me, and I try to calm down enough to deal with the situation at hand. There's blood pooling beneath her, spreading across the white tile in an ever-widening puddle. I check her over, looking for a wound. If there's a wound, I can treat it; I can at least do something until help arrives. But I don't see a wound, and dread starts to settle in the pit of my stomach. My phone is in my hand, dialing 9-1-1 before I can even think about what I'm doing. The operator picked up on the first ring.

"9-1-1, please state your emergency."

"I found my girlfriend unconscious. She's pregnant, and her breathing's shallow, her pulse is irregular, and she's bleeding. I don't see a wound, but there's so much blood—"

"Sir, I need you to stay calm and give me an address." The dispatcher's voice is obnoxiously calm. Even after fifteen plus years in the spy business, even I can't stay calm when I know that the love of my life could be dying. I gave her Fi's address, and she gave me useless instructions. What good are instructions, when there's nothing I can do to stop the bleeding? There's no wound, so the source has to be internal.

I didn't realize that tears were streaming down my face until my vision blurred. One minute I was looking a Fi, trying to do anything but feel as helpless as I was, and the next, everything was just a blur of white and black and red. I felt the teardrops hit the back of my hand, but I don't bother to wipe my cheeks. What's the point when I know that more are going to follow? I'm a cold, calculating son of bitch, but even the coldest of men would weep for a lost child.

I know that's what's happening. I know that my child is dying, and there's nothing that I can do to stop it. What's the point in having special forces training when it can't help you save the two people that are most important to you in the world? The unfairness of it all threatens to overwhelm me.

"Fi, wake up. C'mon, Fi, please wake up," I beg her, taking her hand in mine because I don't know what else to do. I hear the EMTs at the front door and yell for them. My adrenaline makes me hyper aware of everything going on around me. I notice that the EMT uniforms are blue with a yellow logo. I notice that Fi's heart rate is dangerously low, and as is blood pressure. I notice the way that they're shaking their heads, like they're already writing her off.

They loaded her onto a stretcher and got her into the ambulance in three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. They left behind a large red stain on the floor, and bloody footprints through the house. The ride to the hospital takes eight minutes and forty-two seconds. In that time, Fi's heart rate has slowed even further. Thirty-eight seconds after we arrive at the hospital, Fi is taken into surgery, and I can't see her anymore.

I caught words like "ruptured artery." I know that I need to call Sam and my mom, but I can't bring myself to do it. Making those phone calls means acknowledging that the dream I built for myself in the past few weeks is gone. It means that I have to accept that all those boxes of toys sitting in the loft are going back into the attic to collect more dust. It means that Fi isn't going to wear those ridiculous maternity dresses that she bought. It means that the bib that says "Daddy's little helper" isn't going to be worn. My child is dead, and so is my dream.

Two hours and thirty-eight minutes pass before a doctor comes out to speak to me. Before he even spoke to me, I knew what he was going to say, and it was all I could do not to clamp my hands over my ears like a child and refuse to listen. But I did. I listened to his agonizingly concise and scientific speech about Fi's condition.

"We've gotten her stabilized. Are you aware that your wife was pregnant?" I didn't bother to tell him that we're not married.

"Yes."

"She had what is known as an ectopic pregnancy. The fertilized egg attached to the—"

"I know what an ectopic pregnancy is."

"Then you know that there is nothing you could have done to prevent it. We did the best we could to repair the damage, and you should still be able to conceive, though with more difficulty than this time—"

I don't really care what he has to say. I just want to see Fi, to hold her in my arms and know that she's okay. I need to know that even though we've lost that dream, I still have her. I need to know that she hasn't left me, too. "Can I see her now, please?"

"Yes, right this way." I followed him down the hallway, took a right turn, then left again fifty-two feet later. Fi's room is on the right, and is a horrible, sickly green. They put it in hospitals because it's supposed to be soothing, but it mostly makes people realize that they're in a hospital and its _fucking _awful.

It's always strange to see people you know in the hospital. You're used to seeing them in action, grinning while they blow up a car with entirely too much C-4, or shooting at a well-deserved target. Seeing them in the hospital, they look weak, no matter how strong they actually are. It's upsetting and it's difficult, and it's just something you have to deal with, because when working as a spy, at least one of your assets is going to end up in a hospital sometime.

She looks too fragile, and too pale. She should be smiling, basking in the glow of impending motherhood, and instead, she sleeps. But she's breathing at regular intervals, and the steady beep of the heart monitor tells me that all else is as it should be. Except that it isn't. When she wakes up, she's going to have questions. Questions that I'll have to answer.

I know that when I answer those questions, I have to ruin Fi's dream. Mine is gone, and if that's not enough, Fi's will be, too. I can't stop the tears that flow down my cheeks once more, and I don't try. I weep for the child that I'll never teach to shoot a gun or push on the swings or share yogurt with. I cry for my dream, and the fact that it's gone. I weep for that chance at happiness that has slipped through my fingers. I weep for everything I've lost.

It's three hours and twenty-nine minutes later that she wakes up, and I'm still crying. She studies me with those beautiful eyes, and I see the realization on her face. Tears well in her eyes, and she says with painful clarity, "Our baby died, didn't she?"

I take her hand in mine and nod, unable to force the words out. Her tears spill over and stream down her cheeks. After a few moments, tears turn to sobs. Large, ugly, body-wracking sobs that still don't manage to encompass her sorrow. And then, eighteen minutes later, she stops.

"We did everything right," she whispered. She pulls me by the arm until I'm sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, my arm around her.

"The doctor said it was an ectopic pregnancy. There wasn't anything we could have done. You're lucky to be alive," I answer, kissing her on the top of the head. It feels good to have her in my arms again. The pain seems slightly less when she's here.

"Lucky?"

It was an awful word to use, and I know it, but it's true. I still have Fi, and whether she wants me or not, she has me. We've got Ma and Sam. We've got tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that. There's next week and next month. We've got the future.

"Yeah. I'm lucky to have you. I thought I was going to lose you, too. The thought damn near killed me. I don't want a future without Fiona Glennane." She studies me for a minute, and I see the strength that made me fall in love with her. I see a glimmer of hope there, and as long as there is hope, things can get better.

We sit there in silence for a long time, letting the minutes slide away while we grieve for what we've lost. There's crying and cussing and silence as we take the time we need. After a while—I don't know how long it's been—Fi finally speaks.

"A future?"

"Yeah. With you and your shoes and your assault rifles and your H&K USP compact with the silver slide…"

"I want to…try again." She hesitant as she says the words, like she's afraid of what it could me. It could mean further heart ache, but it could also mean indescribable joy.

"We will," I answer, lying on the hospital bed beside her. It's amazing how she fits so perfectly against me. "We will."

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**Author's Note: **So, there it is. Let me know what you think, even if you did find it heart-breakingly horrible. I wanted to end it with hope, because without hope, we might as well be blind. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Please review.


End file.
